Page 2 of The Fake Fiancé

Still, it’s bitingly, wonderfully cold compared to the stuffy church, and one man, no matter how intimidating, has to be better than the crush of people inside. Plus, it would look even weirder to Adam if I bolted. Not that I think I will ever see him again for his opinion to matter, but still…

I stay.

Leaning against the brick wall about four feet from Adam, I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the sharp, freezing air, and it’s so refreshing I don’t even mind the note of cigarette smoke.When I open my eyes, I look over to see him taking another drag off it, and he catches my eye before I manage to look away.

“I’d offer you one, but I had to get this one off my delinquent nephew.” His face is lined with exhaustion and grief, but he huffs a small laugh. “I haven’t smoked in over twenty-five years, if you can believe it. I just…thought it might take the edge off.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I’m not going to stop him, either. “Does it? Take the edge off, I mean.”

“Hell no.” he drops the cigarette, maybe three-quarters smoked, to the concrete and crushes it with his foot. After frowning down at the butt for a moment, he pulls out a handkerchief and picks it up, shoving the whole thing back in his pocket. “But it was worth a shot, I guess.”

“Yes, well,” my mouth is so, so dry. What am I even doing here? “I imagine today has been…overwhelming.”

“That’s one word for it.”

I cringe. “I’m, um, so sorry for?—”

He holds up his hand. “You don’t have to say it. Please. I’ve heard it so many times the words don’t even sound like English anymore.”

It borders on irreverent, but something tells me that he needs a touch of humor, so I go for it,“Mes plus sincères condoléances”

Adam looks at me sharply, thick eyebrows raising, but then the corner of his mouth twitches. “Ha. Clever.” He looks me over slowly now, where he had been avoiding looking at me directly earlier, and it feels overly intimate for just being a once-over. “You didn’t know my wife, did you?”

“My friend did. She ah, asked me to come with her. For support.” The urge to overexplain is strong, but I resist.

“A loyal friend and speaks multiple languages, hm?”

“Four fluently, not including English. Five if everyone involved is extra patient and forgiving.” I offer him a small smile. “I’m a professional translator.”

“You joke when you’re nervous,” he observes, and I feel the flush from earlier returning. This time there is nowhere to hide.

“Yeah, well…”

“Why are you nervous? Surely my reputation in the media isn’t that rough.”

You are so private that your reputation is just ‘mysterious,I think, but keep the words to myself. “Because I’m a total stranger who is terrified she’s going to say the wrong thing on what must be one of the worst days of your life.”

Adam looks surprised by that, and I realize too late that it’s toohonest. What I just said crossed the line of polite interaction and ventured into real stuff. But then Adam clears his throat and goes back to leaning on the wall, staring straight ahead. “There’s nothing anyone could say to make this day better or worse. It just…is.”

I don’t think he’s telling the truth, but it isn’t my place to press. “Okay. Um…”

“What’s your name?”

“Elowen Hart.”

“Pretty,” he compliments. “Well, Ms. Elowen, do you want a job?”

I blink a few times before slipping my hand into the pocket of my dress pants, pinching my thigh to make sure I’m not dreaming up this bizarre scenario. I feel the sting of my fingernails, and sigh internally. No. This is really happening, as weird as it is.

“A job.” It doesn’t come out as a question, though I meant it to.

“A job.” He confirms. “Or, possibly, abetterjob. Temporary, but well paid, travel work. In six months I’m due to attend a retreat in the Alps, and Celeste was the only one between the two of us and Camille who spoke French. I didn’t even think about it until you just spoke…but I’m going to need someone. A translator. On site.”

“Why…” I inhale, trying to slow myself down. “Surely you’d need more than this five-minute conversation to offer me a job, Mr. Valmonte.”

“Adam,” he corrects, as if it should have been a reasonable thought for me to assume I’m on a first-name basis with abillionaire.“And usually I’d agree with you, but you’re the first person in days to speak to me like a normal person and not like I’m made of glass. I’ll have to work closely with my translator, and that’s reason enough for me to think I’d find you tolerable.”

Tolerable. Okay. Well. That’s something, at least, but I’m struck by how terrible of an idea it is. Surely he’s not thinking clearly, and I know little to nothing about him, his company, or this so-called business retreat.